


Wayword Ho

by TheBobblehat



Category: Sherlock BBC
Genre: I don't know why it took me so long to think of this, Kidlock, M/M, Piratelock, adorable and then heartbreak, and now there's a case, don't hate me, have some feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-11
Packaged: 2018-05-10 12:48:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5585983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBobblehat/pseuds/TheBobblehat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Watsons arrive for a surprise visit, and the two boys play some pirates.</p><p>Years later, John and Sherlock meet again and are set on a case that might hit close to home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea if I want to continue this past this chapter or not. Let me know what you think!

The sea, raging against the howling winds, bobbed and spat a frigate as though it were made of paper. Rain pelted down in thick sheets, crashing against the wild sails and then down further onto the men who scrambled this way and that on board. The nose of the ship dipped and jumped, threatening to tip at any point. Through pure luck, it stayed topside. Men shouted and ropes were pulled as the pirate crew tried desperately to remain out of death's grasp. At the helmswheel, a thick bearded, stout man clung to the notches. His beard was red as hellfire, his eyes sharper than the cutlass at his side. His hat remained squat on his head, despite the tugging of the storm winds.

"Tie down them sails, mates!" he bellowed. "Mind yourselves lest you be swallowed below!"

"Aye!" came a chorus of the few men who could.

One of the crewmembers rushed himself up to the helm, his curly black hair sopping. "Captain!" He rushed to the man's side, clinging to the banisters, lest he fall overboard. "We've lost too many men all ready! This sea will swallow us, Redbeard!"

"Nay, Mr. Holmes!" Redbeard barked. "Belay that tongue of yours, man! We shall see this through to the end!"

"We'll never make it!"

Redbeard braced against the helm as the ship teetered right, threatening to capsize. But the captain kept it true. "I will see myself hang before I lose this ship! And what's more, Mr. Holmes!" Redbeard suddenly turned and released the wheel. It spun wildly, free of the captain's sure grip.

Without warning, Redbeard grabbed ahold of Mr. Holmes' shoulders and began to lick his face.

 

"OOF!" Sherlock, age seven, fell to his bum as his Irish Setter pounced onto him, giving the child many sloppy kisses. "Redbeard- _Redbeard!_ Off, off!" The dog eventually came to heel, sitting with a happy grin on his face. Currently, the pair of them were in the back yard of the Holmes household. The summer air was just beginning to warm up, making it easy to set up Sherlock's ship; a collection of apple boxes with the words _The ~~Bobble~~ Bauble Hat_ scrawled on the side in magic marker. A broom sat upright in an old bucket, a piece of black fabric with a painted white skull tied to the top. Sherlock himself was decked in his finest pirate garb - his mother's scarf around his waist, a wooden sword in his hand, and an eyepatch made himself which hung at the base of his neck. Wiping the slobber from his cheek, he turned to Redbeard, who wagged his tail and panted, his tongue lopsided.

"Captain!" said Sherlock. "This is no time for playing! We're in the middle of a storm! If we don't weather it, our men will die!"

Redbeard replied by promptly digging his nose between his legs and cleaning himself.

Sherlock sighed, putting his eyepatch back on. "Well, maybe the storm's cleared up by now."

"Sherlock!" The voice of his older brother caught his attention. He frowned over the edge of his cardboard boat, a squirt gun at the ready as Mycroft approached. "Mummy wants you inside." He was older by about ten years, and much rounder. His hair, unlike Sherlock's dark curls, was a pale ginger, matching his freckles.

"Why?"

"We have company."

"So?"

"Mother would like you to be presentable."

Sherlock made a face. "You be presentable."

"I've already been presented. Come on. Redbeard can come, too."

"Bruuf." Redbeard barked happily.

Huffing, Sherlock got out of his ship and followed Mycroft inside, dog at his heels. He was lead to the living room where he saw his mother having tea with another woman and her two children. Her daughter was Mycroft's age, and held a wholly-uninterested look about her face as she slumped against the couch. Her son, meanwhile, looked around him with wide eyes as he ate a biscuit, his feet swinging off the edge of the sofa cushion. He was closer to Sherlock's age. Mrs. Holmes turned as her boys walked in, smiling.

"There you are. Sherlock, you remember the Watson's, don't you? Oh come here, you're filthy!" Sherlock was brought in by the long arms of his mother as she wiped the smudges off his face with a napkin.

"Mum-mummy-!" He wiggled out of her grasp and straightened out the scarf on his hips. He and the boy across from him stared at each other. Sherlock had always been a pale child, his mess of dark hair un-tamable by any brush. His eyes were a bright, icy color in contrast. The boy across from him was his opposite in every way. His rounded cheeks were pink and kissed by the sun. His blond hair, while looked ready to be messed up at any given moment, was cut close to his head. Between his big nose and his blue eyes, Sherlock couldn't help but think he'd make a very fine hobbit. 

Mrs. Holmes went on. "They came over for Christmas dinner a few years ago, don't you remember? This is Mrs. Watson and her daughter Harriot, and this is John. Don't you remember John?"

John smiled as he was introduced, waving in greeting. "'ullo."

Sherlock was quiet, his little hands clutched behind his back. With his head tilted down, he took a half step away. While John looked sunny and personable, Sherlock immediately curled into a ball of shyness. That is, until Redbeard bounded forward and began to slobber all over John like an old friend. Sherlock blinked as John giggled at the dog slobber. Rather than be afraid or pull away, John embraced Redbeard and scratched his ears in a friendly manner. "I remember you!" he sang. "You were smaller last time!"

"Rawrf!"

Again, John laughed and pushed his face into Redbeard's fur. Sherlock watched curiously, seeming a little less apprehensive about the whole thing.

"Sherlock, dear." Mrs. Holmes turned to her youngest. "Why don't you take John outback and play? Mrs. Watson and I have a lot to talk about."

Sherlock nodded and turned. "C'mon, Redbeard." The dog happily trotted along side Sherlock as John chased after them. His play-ship remained standing, ready to be boarded again. Sherlock, plucking his sword back up from  his ship, turned to John, who was admiring it with wonder.

"You're playing pirates?"

"Yeah. Redbeard's the captain."

"Cool. I like pirates." John peeked into the boxes, looking at the assortment of toys and junk collected over the years. A few green army men were taped to the edge of the ship. No doubt the rest of the crew. "Can I play in it?"

Sherlock nodded. "But you can't just play in it. If you're new to the crew, you need a job."

"Do I?"

"Mm-hm. I think since you're brand new, you'll be a powder monkey."

John tilted his head to the side. "Powder monkey?" he repeated. "Whassat?"

Sherlock, fixing the broom-mast-pole, rolled his eyes. "Someone who brings powder from the kegs to the cannons, _obviously_."

"What cannons?"

"These cannons!" Sherlock pointed at the crudely drawn cannon fronts on the side of his ship.

"Hm..." John frowned. "I don't want to be a powder monkey. I usually play doctor at home."

Sherlock tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I guess you can be the surgeon."

"Do pirates have surgeons?"

"Of course pirates have surgeons! Who d'you think puts on their peg legs?" Looking around, Sherlock took one of his mother's dishtowels from his mast-pole and motioned John forward. It was tied around his head, nearly falling down to his brows. As a finishing touch, Sherlock removed his eyepatch and placed it on John.

"A surgeon with one eye?" John questioned.

"You don't have one eye!" Sherlock argued. "It's so you can see in the dark below deck! Honestly..."

John chuckled and hopped inside. "You know lots about pirates."

"I do," Sherlock said proudly. "Mummy gets me books all the time. I've read them all. Now!" Sherlock stood at attention, John following suit. "We've just escaped a storm! A lot of our men are hurt, Dr. Watson! While Cap'n Redbeard steers us home, you'll be in charge of fixing 'em up!"

With a goofy grin, John saluted Sherlock promptly. "Aye, aye, sir, Mr. Holmes, sir!"

## ☠ ☠ ☠

The waters were calm. Sunlight twinkled along the crystal clear blues of the Caribbean. Palmtrees swayed as the salty air threaded from island to island. Off a few miles from shore, _The Bauble Hat_ sailed listlessly. The captain was busy doing captainly things, and so first mate Mr. Holmes was left to his own devices. He stared through his spyglass, his long coat fluttering in the wind. 

"Mr. Holmes!" He turned to see Dr. Watson standing behind him. His fingers were bloodied, and in a bag at his side sat his surgeon's tools. He saluted Holmes with pride. "All crew accounted for, sir. Nearly lost Rogers but I sewed him up good and proper."

"Well done, Dr. Watson. At this rate we'll make Port Royal in no time."

Suddenly, the boat began to rock. Holmes and Watson shifted, nearly knocked off their balance. They rushed to the edge of the boat and looked down. A sinister, black shadow slithered down and beneath the hull. Redbeard marched to the edge and looked over as well. Just as he did, a giant, slimy tentacle rose from the briny depths, water raining down from its suckers. Holmes shouted with all his might:

" _ **KRACKEN!!**_ "

Chaos broke out on deck as the beast's arms came down in mighty blows. Men were yanked from deck and flown about the air, their screams cut off the moment they hit the water. All around them, the monstrous limbs danced and thrashed, the pirates aboard shooting and hacking as it tried to break the ship in half. Holmes and Watson fought back to back, their cutlasses out and frantic. Suddenly, a wet tentacle grabbed Watson around his waste and pulled. Down he went, being yanked over the side of the railing.

"Watson!" Holmes jumped into action, grabbing his arms in a desperate attempt to pull him back on board. His muscles strained but Holmes resisted the godly pull of the monster below. "Hold on, Watson! I have you!"

"Holmes! It's got me, Holmes! I'm done for!" Their wet hands grasped at one another, and Holmes could feel Watson's hands slipping from his. And then-

 

"Hahahaha!"

"John!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! It just tickles."

John sat on his knees outside the cardboard ship, a feathery boa wrapped around his waist and shoulders. Sherlock sat inside the boat opposite him, now frowning as John giggled at the feathers. The sun was low in the sky by now, and Redbeard was off digging through the dirt by Mrs. Holmes's petunias. John stood up and unwrapped himself from the boa and holding it up. "Ha! I'm too strong! It can't hold me!"

Sherlock had opened his mouth to tell him that pirates _didn't_ have super strength (for the third time) when yelling from the house pulled them both to reality. They turned, the voices of the adults inside raising to worrisome levels. John tossed his kracken arm down and the pair ran inside, Redbeard following after. Dirt flying from their feet, they rushed to the living room, where most of the noise was. There, in front of the open door, was the real Dr. Watson. John's father.

He was a huge man, lumbering and square jawed. Dog tags glinted around his neck, and his meaty hands were clenched into fists. Behind him, Mrs. Watson held Harriot by the shoulders, trembling with her head turned down. Harriot seemed close to tears. He had just finished yelling about something when he turned, his eyes locked on John. "There you are. Get in the car!"

John jumped, his happy face cracked immediately. He moved to do as his father said, but Sherlock suddenly grabbed on to him, keeping him where he stood. Behind the boys, Redbeard growled, the hair along his spine standing straight up. He glared at Dr. Watson, trying to seem as unafraid as he possibly could. Before Watson could shout again, Mr. Holmes stepped forward.

"That's enough, Charles," he said firmly. "Now we've tried to talk to you civilly, but you've gone too far-"

"Where I go is none of your business, Tim. This is _my_ family. And if _I_ say they don't come anywhere near this bloody house again, you damn well better believe they _won't._ "

Mrs. Holmes, furious, piped up. "They're your family, Charles, not your _slaves_. You're lucky we don't call the authorities this very minute!"

"Control your wife, Timothy. That mouth of hers will get her in trouble some day."

"How _dare_ you-!?"

"That's it," said Mr. Holmes. "I'm contacting the police." He went to the phone, yanking it from the hook. Before he could dial a single number, Watson spoke up.

"Meddle in my affairs and I will see to it personally that your assets are stripped from this earth."

"I'll take that chance."

"At the expense of your family, even?"

Mr. Holmes paused. Anger clear on his face, he slowly turned to Mr. Watson. Watson was sneering. "I have plenty of ways to make life _very_ difficult for the both of you. You bloody Holmeses, always stickin' yer nose in where it don't belong. Well you hear me, if I find one bloody officer at my door life will get _very_ difficult indeed. You understand me?" With disdain, Mr. Holmes hung up the telephone. Watson snapped his head back to where John stood. "Right. In the car. _Double time!_ "

John flinched, on the verge of crying. Sherlock tightened his hold, feeling John start to pull from him. Mycroft's hands came to Sherlock's shoulders, prying the boys from each other. "No!" Sherlock cried. He watched as John miserably went to his father's side. Watson snagged John's arm roughly, turning to take them to the car. Sherlock struggled harder. "No, you can't! They can't! Mycroft, he's my surgeon! He's my surgeon!" He managed to pull from Mycroft's grasp and rush at Watson, a barking Redbeard close at his side. There was a great shuffle as Sherlock yanked at Watson's arm, trying to free John from his hold. Chaos erupted and all began shouting at each other in a rush. Just as Mycroft quickly pulled him away, Sherlock reached forward and bit into Watson's arm. The man yelled in pain and made a swipe for Sherlock, but Mycroft pulled him away just in time.

"Bloody little _cunt!_ "

Mr. Holmes stepped forward, his arm around both his sons. " _Leave_ , or I swear to God I _will_ call the police."

Watson fumed at Sherlock, who looked ready to give him another bite. He was proud to note that the one he did give him had started to bleed just a little bit. With no further words, Watson turned and forced his family to the idling car in the drive way.

Sherlock cried the entire night.

## ☠ ☠ ☠

"Right. Cream coffee, no sugars."

"Cheers. Happy Christmas."

"Ta. Same to you."

Taking his coffee from the cart, John Watson took a warm sip. It was a cold December morning, and the hot drink was a miracle on his insides. His coffee and wallet in one hand, he limped himself to a park bench and sat down to get re-situated. He was a man these days, with bags beneath his eyes and his hair flecked with bits of brown and gray. Life had withered him to look older than he was. Beneath his arm was a newspaper. Want ads for flatshares were circled in red pen, many of them already crossed out. He'd been back a week, and so far, no real luck in finding a new place to live.

His cane rested on the edge of the bench as he tried to put his change into the folds of his wallet. "Tried" was the key word. His fingers numb from the cold, he fumbled with his possessions until, almost out of protest, they fell from his hands and tumbled forward to a pair of very nice, black shoes. "Oh Christ. Sorry, mate." Setting his coffee aside, he awkwardly bent down to try and pick up his things at the feet of a stranger, some of his effects having fallen out of the folds. He managed to pick up everything in time, except for one last item. An old eyepatch, faded from the years kept safe in his pockets. It was far too small for him these days. Over the years, it had developed as a sort of lucky trinket, always within reach. Just as he went to grab it, a pair of gloved fingers plucked it up from the ground. A thrill of anger hit him.

"Hey!" He stood, finally looking to the face in front of him. "That's my..." The words died quickly in his throat.

Standing before him holding his eyepatch was Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All right, decided to upload another. I honestly have no idea where this is going, but I'll figure it out eventually 8D

"So how are you then? Doing well?"

"Hm? Good, yeah. Very good."

Sherlock Holmes, his fingers laced together, leaned against the standing table between them. They had decided to find a quiet spot to talk, and chose a local cafe. John finished his coffee, and Sherlock had ordered a cup of tea for himself. He hadn't touched it so far. He was taller than John now, though his hair was still as curly and wild as it had been when they were little. His eyes, John noticed, were the most curious thing about him. The stare with which they bore into John's own was magnetic. It took all of John's willpower to keep his gaze averted in some points. Sherlock hadn't looked away. John would almost wager that Sherlock was peering into his very soul.

"Just looking for a flatshare," he continued, trying to ease the silence between them. He gestured to the folded paper on the table. "Haven't much luck yet, but..."

"Mm. And where have you been staying for the past week?"

"Week?" John repeated.

"Yes. The week since you've returned from abroad. Where have you been staying? I'm guessing a hostel or motel, unless you've recently contracted a slight case of multiple sclerosis. Those beds can be murder on the posture. Furthermore, your eyes."

"What about them?"

"Baggy and unfocused. There are clear signs of jetlag, which lends me to mark the time that you've returned from your military service."

"Who said anything about-?"

"Your tan and your limp, simply put. No tan above the wrists, which means you haven't been away on holiday. And if you had, you certainly have miscalculated coming home. Not to mention that you limp when you walk, yet when the hostess said the only tables available were these standing ones, you didn't put up so much as a fuss, almost as though you've forgotten about your condition. This leads me to believe the injury is at least partly psychosomatic. Going on my own knowledge of your family, it's very likely you entered into military service after your father, whom you haven't gone to for help, nor have you enlisted the sympathies of your mother or sister. If my memory of your family is correct, I must say I applaud you for your decision to leave them out of your affairs, despite how difficult it might make your current situation. With all of this information presented to me now, I believe I only have one question."

John, head spinning, spoke automatically. "What question?"

"Was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John stood, buzzed at the whirlwind of a man before him. It was as though Sherlock had tapped into his most recent memories as easily as reading a book. So, winded and reeling, he answered: "Afghanistan."

Sherlock, pleased with himself, took a sip of his tea. "Hm." He frowned. "Tea's gone cold." John thought it best not to point out that Sherlock had let it sit for a good twenty minutes before drinking it. He looked down at his own coffee, which too had gone chilled in his hands. In their brief meetings together as children, there were a few memories that stayed with John about the youngest Holmes boy. This was not one of them.

"That... was amazing."

Sherlock, hand still on his mug, stalled. "It was?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary." He leaned forward, now fascinated by the man before him. "Where did you learn _that_?"

A smile twitched on his lips. "A lot has happened since we last saw each other... Dr. Watson."

John smiled back. "Figured that one out, too?"

A look of surprise came to Sherlock's face. "Oh? No, actually."

John laughed.

## ☠ ☠ ☠

The address was 221 B Baker Street in central London. Generally speaking, John had stayed away from most addresses around the area because they were well out of his price range. But Sherlock, who had been looking for a flatshare himself, insisted that the landlady owed him a favor. Walking into the threshold, that landlady came to greet them.

"Oh, Sherlock!" She walked forward, and John immediately got a vibe of motherliness from her. She was small and wrinkled, with a big smile and welcoming arms. "There you are. I've been waiting to see who you brought-!" She paused when she spotted John behind him. "Oh! This must be him." She kissed his cheek in greeting.

"John Watson, this is Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson."

"Ooh, a doctor! How lovely." Turning, she showed them up the stairs, John lagging behind the pair of them with his limp. They walked inside, and John saw books and boxes scattered about. Science equipment cluttered up the kitchen, and all manner of papers were scattered along the tables until there was no way to see the wood beneath. "So glad Sherlock finally found someone. I was getting worried."

"Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock calmly.

She waved it off. "So, what do you think, Dr. Watson?" She beamed at the dusty living room. "There's a second bedroom upstairs. If you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms."

John blinked. "Well of course we'll be needing two..."

"Oh don't worry, dear, there's all sorts round here! Mrs. Turner's got married ones." With that, Mrs. Hudson doddled into the kitchen, where she began to complain about the mess Sherlock had made. John, a little blindsided by the whole day, looked around to take it all in. This hadn't been how he thought his day was going to go, at least.

"Right..." He hesitated. "Not what I expected."

"Oh?" Sherlock began to rifle through his files, leisurely tossing one or two to the floor that he didn't need.

"Half expected it to be decked out like a pirate ship."

Sherlock laughed, his eyes on the files. "It is possible to grow out of the whims of boyhood, John."

"Completely?"

"Well... perhaps not _completely_."

Leaning back in his chair, John fiddled with his cane between his legs. "So what do you do, then?" Sherlock turned to him. "And that thing you did at the cafe. How did you do that? Why? I've never seen anyone do... what was it you even did anyway?"

"It was a deduction," Sherlock explained. "I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world; I invented the job."

"Which means what?"

"It means I'm called every so often to do Scotland Yard's job for them."

"What, like murders?"

"Sometimes. On a good day." It was then that a new noise alerted them. The sound of footsteps made their way to the top floor of 221 B, and just as John turned to see who it was, a man stepped into the light of the living room. He was middle aged, but still handsome, with silvering hair and wide eyes. Sherlock didn't seem surprised to see him. "Lestrade. Perfect timing."

"Sherlock." He glanced over at John, who was staring at the man in curiosity. "Oh. Sorry, am I interrupting?"

"Not at all. What is it this time? Serial suicides? Mysterious ciphers? Missing painting?"

"Murder."

"Excellent. Where? When?"

"Well it hasn't exactly happened yet. A Mrs. Wells has reported a stalker for some time. This morning, there's been a death threat put on her life."

Sherlock didn't seem pleased. "So? Place security at her home and catch the murderer before he strikes."

"Can't, I'm afraid. Mrs. Wells and her husband do some very high profile work parliament. I've been asked to keep her case covert, which means we can only really afford one person, maybe two."

Sherlock let out a long, drawn out sigh, his eyes rolling. "This is Mycroft."

John could have sworn that Lestrade's face turned a very light shade of pink. "Wha? No, it's-"

"It's Mycroft," Sherlock repeated. "He wants me to keep one of his precious pawns safe, and so he sent his lap dog to recruit me."

"I am _not_ your brother's lap dog."

"Not in public, anyway."

John, staying where he was, looked between the two as though he were watching a tennis match. Sherlock, who was on the cusp of rejecting such a simple case, paused when he saw the curiosity in John's eye. "Fine," he suddenly said. "Text me Mrs. Wells' address. John and I will be on our way soon enough."

"Sorry?" John said, startled.

"You're taking a civilian?" Lestrade questioned.

"Dr. Watson is a military man recently returned from combat abroad. He'll be a vital in catching your murderer." He rounded to Lestrade then, dismissing him with a wave of his hand. "Off you go then. Tell my beloved brother that I'm taking his case. No need to follow me. Thank you, Inspector."

Disgruntled but able to say nothing, Lestrade turned and left the two men alone. John stood, his mouth slightly agog. "Hold on, hold on. What just happened? Are you... Are you taking me to catch a _murderer?_ "

"What else were we supposed to do for an afternoon?"

"Sherlock I'm not in bloody law enforcement."

"Neither am I."

John paused to gather his thoughts, his brow furrowed. "Look. I just got home. I've barely had time to get settled and now, I'm being pulled into some damned murder scheme. It'll be dangerous and one of us might get hurt."

Sherlock tilted his head forward. Those eyes, sharper than blades, cut through John to the truth hidden behind propriety. "Would you rather I leave you home?"

A pause sat between them. John, his lips pursed, waited just a couple beats, before turning sharply. "Damn you." He swiped his coat from the arm chair.

"Bring your gun," said Sherlock, wrapping up in his scarf.

"How do you know I have a gun?"

With a smirk, Sherlock eyed him. "Oh, _please_."

## ☠ ☠ ☠

"It began happening about a year ago. Mr. Wells was coming home later these days, so I spent most of my time working from home. I started getting letters with no return addresses. They had information that I've shared with no one. Daily schedules and routines, my whole life laid out before me. I tried getting away, but that's when the texts started coming in. Emails. All from numbers and addresses I didn't recognize. Every time I blocked one, another popped up. I've hired investigators before, but they can't find who's doing this."

John, deciding to be useful, wrote on a notepad swiped from 221 B before they left. He asked questions as Sherlock floated around the room, taking in details of the (rather impressive) Wells' estate. "Do they have any suspects? Any at all?"

Mrs. Wells shook her head. "There have been threats before, of course. Mack gets a couple now and then. When you work high up, it's bound to happen."

"So you think this was political?"

"It has to be."

"No."

Both turned to Sherlock, who was staring at a picture of Mr. and Mrs. Wells on their wedding day. He eyed the engraving casually; _Mack Emmerson Wells and Willie D Avery, January 1979._ "This was not political."

Mrs. Wells seemed both curious and affronted. She was a woman in her sixties, with clothes and jewelry that were modest yet evident in their expense. Her dyed hair was well kept, and her makeup done properly. She was certainly a woman who wore her fortune in a way correct for her age. "What could it be if not political?" she asked.

"Frankly, Mrs. Wells," Sherlock said, "you're not high enough for this to be a viscous political attack." He turned with a smile, hands behind him. "This is very personal."

"But what could anyone want from me, personally?" Mrs. Wells argued.

"Do you have any enemies?" John asked. "Maybe... I don't know... Someone professional who would want to scare you?"

"I don't think so."

"How long have you owned this house?"

Again, the interview was derailed as both looked to Sherlock. "Excuse me?" said Mrs. Wells.

"This home." Sherlock tapped a glass shelf with statuettes displayed on it. "How long have you had it? It's centuries old. A family home, I'd guess. Built in the late 17th century? Perhaps early 18th?"

"Yes," she said carefully.

"Inherited from your father's side, I take it? Given the names engraved on the hallway walls."

"It is."

"How many rooms?"

"Mr. Holmes, I don't see how this-"

"How many rooms, Mrs. Wells?"

She huffed, folding her arms. "Eleven." John's eyebrows shot up.

"Cellar?"

"Yes."

"Interesting. May I have a look?"

"Mr. Holmes, I am in a very serious situation. I don't see how giving a grand tour of my family's home will keep me alive."

"Well that all depends on your cooperation, I think. Indulge me."

"Fine. This way." Flustered, she turned and marched them towards the cellar. John, limping quickly to keep up with his friend, took in as much detail as he could. But he was certain that Sherlock had already cataloged all that John could see and more. The temperature dropped as they made their way into the cellar, the air even more frigid than outside. Mrs. Wells flipped on the lights, revealing a cellar full of storage boxes and a few racks of wine. Nothing stood out. Sherlock walked further in and began running his hand along the walls. John watched with fascination, Mrs. Wells with irritation. "Are you done?"

"No," said Sherlock. "But for now, I suppose." He rounded to Mrs. Wells. "Someone is very much trying to kill you, I'm happy to report. And they will indeed try tonight. If you want to stay alive till the morning, I suggest my friend and I stay until then to try and catch your killer."

The color drained from her face. "Oh Lord..." She seemed faint. John took her hand immediately, keeping her stable.

"We won't let a thing happen to you," he said dutifully. "Sherlock and I will stay up all night if we have to until the man is caught."

"Exactly. Even if he does succeed I'm sure we can catch him after."

" _Sherlock._ "

"What?"

It took a bit of coercing, but Mrs. Wells eventually calmed down enough to show them to their room for the evening. She was shaken by the news, but all in all, remained vigilant. Clearly, she had strength most women her age did not possess. They got to the top floor of bedrooms, and Mrs. Wells stopped them at the doorway.

"The second guest room is being renovated," she began. "This is all we have for the moment." John and Sherlock were presented with a room with a single bed and half-bath. Cozy for couples, awkward for long-lost friends.

"This will do," said Sherlock instantly. He walked in, observing the books on the shelf. "I suggest you call your husband to come home early tonight. I have a feeling none of us will get much sleep."

"I... Should I even stay?"

"Of course you should." Sherlock turned. "The killer won't show himself unless you're here. Now, there's a bit of work John and I have to finish before night comes. If you'll excuse us, Mrs. Wells."

She didn't seem pleased with being dismissed in her own home. She puffed up, but John swooped in to speak. "You have our word, Mrs. Wells. Try and relax for the rest of the day." Deflating a little, she nodded in agreement and headed to her own room. With the door closed behind her, John turned to the single bed, and then let his eyes linger on Sherlock as he examined each and every book in front of him. "You know, you could afford to be a little less callous."

"Can I?" Sherlock swiped a book and opened it. "I find sugar coating the truth only leads to problems. It's kinder to be quick and to the point."

"Sherlock, Mrs. Wells has a threat on her life, one that might be very serious. You don't think trying to comfort her would do her any good?"

"You're the medical man, John, I have no remark on her mental state. But speaking personally, no I do not. Making her feel better will not hinder the killer's plans."

John scoffed at sat himself down on the bed. His leg had grown sore, and his left hand had begun to twitch. "To the point then. What's our plan?"

"Wait for the murder to show up and apprehend him."

"That's not a plan."

"Do you have a better one?"

"I don't know... find evidence? Compile suspects?"

"All done. The only thing left to do is wait. I have no doubt we won't have any trouble catching the criminal."

"Oh really? In case you haven't noticed, Sherlock, I'm not exactly operating at full capacity."

"Psychosomatic, John. Your limp exists because you let it."

John scoffed. "And where did you get your medical degree?"

"Degrees are boring." He rounded to John, removing his gloves. "Taking years out of my life to get a certificate to show off would be a waste of my time."

"Right. Your modesty becomes you." That got Sherlock chuckling. John, despite his minor annoyances, smiled back. "It's good to see you, you know."

"Yes," he said, his deep voice low. "It's been too long." His smile fell slightly. "I tried contacting you. My mother mentioned you were in London, but by the time I found your address, you were gone."

"Did you?" he said in surprise. "Why?"

"On a whim, I suppose. My mother worried over your family for years after that day."

John nodded, fiddling with his cane. "Yeah," he agreed. "Eventually she left him. My mom. Family sort of broke apart after that. Harry became a drinker, she and her wife are splitting up. Haven't spoken to dad in years."

"Good."

John frowned. "Good?" he repeated.

"There are some people who are not worth being in your life, John. I remember that day vividly." His gaze was serious now, hand tight on his gloves. "He's one of them."

John shifted awkwardly. "Look, Sherlock..."

But Sherlock brushed it aside. "Nevermind. A conversation for another time, I think. We should get ready." He turned to the window, long fingers resting on the frosted window pane.

"The game is on."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Scratch my notes before. I now know EXACTLY where this is going.


End file.
